


Words, Swift As Arrows

by taichara



Category: King of Bones - Erin A. Bisson
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 03:53:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1884339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taichara/pseuds/taichara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Winter border skirmishes are nasty things.  The Swordmaster has news to deliver even after the skirmish is over -- but at least there's good to go with the bad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words, Swift As Arrows

The snow kicked up in rippling waves around Smoke's hooves, light and airy and no trouble to move through; a small thing perhaps, but one for which Raou was more than a little grateful. Denser snowpack would have exhausted Smoke long before they reached their destination, and an ice crust would have brutalized the mare's hocks and torn her skin to pieces. As it was she plowed along with a right good will, head still high despite the hours of travel on the track and paying no mind to the flakes still falling all around.

“You're thinking of the nice, warm stable and mash that's going to be waiting for you, aren't you?”

Raou patted the side of the grey mare's neck with one mitted hand, chuckling and causing her to flick her ears back and snort, tossing her head. He switched to a gentle stroking before grasping the reins.

“Yes, and you're not trusting me one whit. Not to worry, my grey lady, we're going nowhere near another battlefield. We're off to visit friends, not hounding some wet-nosed lordling's border keep.

“News to deliver, good and bad -– and a blessing on Gier that he let me go to begin with ...”

Plainslord Gier -- at that very moment still up to his neck in forcing the rebels to bow the knee, no doubt -– would have had every right to demand his Swordmaster's continued presence. But Gier knew Raou well, knew he needed to deliver his missive in person, and released him from duty in Vannesheight for a span of days. One day to travel to Mora, one to remain there, one to travel back. It was a tight run and depended on a lack of storms, but it was enough -– and here it was, with the sky already turning indigo and the tiniest flicker of firelight off in the distance.

Raou sighed, prompting another flick of Smoke's ears, and pulled his heavy fur-lined snowcloak closer before yanking its hood up over his mane of mahogany hair. Vision be damned, it was getting colder, and one eye was never going to see again anyway; leather tunic and breeches over woolen blouse and underlayers would only get him so far. There was no point freezing this close to Mora – the way had been clear, but his mare wasn't the only one looking forward to being warm again.

-*-

Smoke's snort of alarm startled Raou out of a half-doze he hadn't realized he'd fallen into. They were on the outskirts of the manor now, well into the early portion of the night and threading along the path between the common paddock and the small cluster of cottages that looked to Mora and its lord knight -– but Smoke had stopped dead and refused to budge any further.

_Something has to be here, then. Something to set off a battle-trained hippari._

With muscles complaining as he went rigid and alert, Raou scanned their surroundings. The falling snow softened the edges of everything around him, made it harder to pick out whatever was causing the problem –-

_There._

Slinking along the edge of the woven paddock, a furred shape with long legs and sloping shoulders snuffed at the willow-withes and clawed tentatively at a post. A grasspard. Slowly easing back in his saddle, Raou opened his bowcase and slipped the weapon free, stringing it quickly.

_Only one cat means it's old, sick or both. Looking for an easy meal, are you kitty?_

_Sorry, I can't let you do that. Paddock might be empty now but it's not going to stay that way –- and I can't let you get the idea of hanging around._

Arrow nocked to bow and a second held in his fingers Raou kneed Smoke forward towards the cat. With a squeal of anger she lunged forward, and the cat twisted in a knot of ivory-dun fur to meet the onrushing mare. Raou released the first arrow, nocked the second and let it fly after the first without bothering to wait and see if the first struck home -– but strike they did. The grasspard crumpled in its tracks, arrows buried to the fletching in its chest.

After shooting at armoured men and women, finding the vulnerable points on an unprotected beast was a simple thing …

Dismounting, Raou ground-tied Smoke and slipped the bow back into its case before striding towards the grasspard and kneeling. Old the beast definitely was; the dagger fangs were worn, one broken off halfway down its length, and the cat's ribs were just beginning to show beneath the heavy pelt. It was no wonder it had decided to risk slinking into a human habitation to find a meal.

_I've done you a mercy, so I have. Now, what to do with the carcass … Hn. Lyssa might find some use for the fur, at the least._

_We'll call it a visiting-gift -–_

Hefting the dead pard with a grunt, Raou slung it across the tail of Smoke's saddlepad and took up the trailing reins. Mora-manor was right there, after all; no harm in walking the few minutes it would take to reach the stables.

 

-*-

 

A thump on the doors brought a tousle-haired stableboy scurrying to answer, only to stand slack-jawed and staring at Raou. It was all the Swordmaster could do to not roll his eye at the boy, but he limited himself to a wicked smile and a hint of a bow that rustled his heavy cloak.

“What, you've never seen battle-scars before? Or is it the cat that's got your tongue, hmm?”

“Ah -– the -– the cat, ser. Honest! We've been trying to catch it for a fortnight, but it slinks away -– ah, slunk away at dawn ...”

“Fair enough, lad, fair enough. Now, send yourself after Caien -– he's still steward here at Mora, isn't he -– and tell him it's Swordmaster Raou here to see Lord Milen. I can get the lady here settled away.”

“Ah -– yesser --”

Without another stammered word the boy was gone through the inner door into the manor itself, and it was with a grin of equally-wicked amusement that Raou laid out the pard on an old saddle blanket and set to work giving Smoke the warmth, brushdown and fodder she was now imperiously demanding. He was all but finished the task when a cough alerted him to Caien; tilting his head to glance down the row of stalls towards the door, he waved to the wiry red-robed figure to indicate he had noted his presence. Caien eyed the pard before joining Raou at Smoke's temporary stall.

“I hardly expected to see you, Lord Sarras, given recent events; let alone on a winter's night. Surely there must be some reason other than a grasspard, though it's death is something Lord Milen will be more than thankful for …?”

“I bring word of his son.”

Nodding, Mora's steward brushed a stray lock of greying hair out his eyes before giving Raou a look that was half piercing, half pleading.

“That's what we both thought, Raou. He's waiting for you in his study –- it's rather too late to warm up the entire hall -– and I'll be up with a late meal for you both shortly.

“It's … not a death notice, I hope?”

Quickly, Raou shook his shaggy head before roughly patting Caien's shoulder.

“No death notice, Caien. I'd be being more official if it was, by Sala's eyes -– but there _is_ a complicating wrinkle, and I want him to know about it before word travels. He might want to travel himself, he and Lyssa, depending on what he makes of the news.”

 

-*-

Milen's study was just as Raou remembered it; hung with well-loved woolen tapestries to fend off the coldness of the stone, two round windows shuttered close against the snows, a pair of enveloping padded chairs pulled up close to the hearth –- and the shelves and bins of documents, the sheaves of parchment and reed-paper and the heavy bronzewood desk. An ardent scribe and archivist, was Mora's lord knight, a profession Raou hoped would serve him well in the near future.

Hanging his cloak to dry on a peg near the hearth, Raou sank into the unoccupied chair at Milen's nod and knowing smile. Mora's dark-haired master was already seated, thick woolen night-robe thrown over his shift and loose breeches, and Milen was not above making a playful jab at Raou with his walking staff as the Swordmaster seated himself. There was a smile on Milen's face, but it hardly matched the worry in the hazel eyes.

“Is it over, Raou?”

Leave it to Milen to cut right to the heart, Raou thought wryly. He's still an officer even after the maiming.

“Oh, it's over alright. That little bastard Rehn -– what kind of idiot decides to rebel with winter half-way on us? Sala's _tits_ , any junior subofficer in the Dragoons could've told him it was a damned idiot idea to try and wall himself up in Stonemere this time of year!”

Raou brought a fist down on his chair's arm in emphasis, and Milen hid a smile. Same old Raou.

“So the Plainlord …?”

“Starved the little bastard out, in a crow's eye. Anyone who wanted to surrender, and all the common folk who managed to slip away; those we brought in and escorted to the surrounding loyal villages. Oh, there were a good few scuffles but nothing that serious – Rehn didn't have the troops, flat-out, compared to the mass of us Lord Gier fielded.”

“Serious enough, though, that you --”

“What, these?”

Raou pointed to the new scars seaming half of his face, the dead eye at their centre.

“I'll manage. I can still aim well enough to drop a grasspard with two shots -– you can thank me for that later, by the way, Lyssa's going to love the hide –- so I'm not worried about impairing my sword skills much. And there weren't many casualties on either side, praise Sala. I can deal with an eye lost, for that.

“Which brings me to the matter of Arval. No, damn, Milen, don't go corpse-colour on me, gaah! The boy's fine and there's no new holes in him.”

Slowly Milen released the breath he'd caught. Watching him like a burly eagle, Raou waited until the other man looked steadier -– and had poured himself a fortifying drink of hippocras, gesturing for Raou to feel free to do the same -- before continuing.

“Arval's fine, except for a _tiny_ little detail concerning his having thrown in with Rehn. I suppose he considered it a matter of honour to side with his fosterer; but, against the Plainslord? The boy needs a good dose of common sense -– or maybe a few clouts in the head to knock his sense loose again!

“Gier's inclined to not demand too much of him, I think, on account of his age and lack of any real involvement in Rehn's actual plans. He's going to need some kind of official reprimand, mind you, and I thought I'd give you the fair warning along with assuring you the little wretch's still among the living.

“But there's one other small, little thing -– and this _is_ official, I'm just bringing it to your attention early --”

Grinning widely enough that scars stretched, Raou reached into the lining of his tunic and drew out a neatly-folded bit of parchment, then half rose from his seat to drop the little packet into Milen's lap. He didn't bother to hide his sly smile as Milen, puzzled, unfolded the missive and scanned the precisely-scribed words … saw the seal and signet concluding the writ, and stared dumbfounded.

“This -– you're joking.

“Plainslord Gier wants me to come to Vannesheight and be the official scribe-chronicler for Rehn's rebellion?”

Dark eye gleaming, Raou pretended to be interested in his drink and the ice-white sweetmeats of snow gourd set out next to his chair until Milan jabbed him with his staff. He couldn't keep up the little farce long in any case, not with Milen and not over something so important.

“Damn right he does, Milen. He wants you and Lyssa to come to the Keep, and he wants you to be the one to make the official chronicle of the events. _And_ if you're actually present, he can remand Arval into your hands and dodge the arrow of having to levy the same punishment on him as on the rest of Rehn's supporters.

“There's no reason you can't leave Mora in Caien's hands, is there, now that the cat's gone? There's no crops and not much merchanting this time of year.”

Milen, folding and re-folding the parchment, shook his head. It was a shock, oh yes; but a good one, despite the small shadow of Arval's near-disgrace. His son was alive, the rebellion had been dealt a finishing blow, and the rest -– a position as a Chronicler would offer everything losing his commission amongst the Dragoons had cost him.

“No, no reason at all. Raou, thank you for bringing the news ahead of time; we have time to discuss and prepare before the official word arrives, and that makes all the difference this time of year ...”

“Oh, tell me something I don't know. And you know I'd do this for you and Lyssa, I told you I'd bring whatever word I could.”

The grin was back, dark eye shining.

“Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to accidentally wander into the kitchens and give Caien a terror. News like this deserves a _proper_ meal and not whatever warmed-overs he's throwing together, eh?”

Collapsing into quiet laughter, Milen shook his head.

“Don't ever change, Raou. Don't ever change.”


End file.
